


Five Minute Interlude

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:30:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7812550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Sucre three seconds to make his move after Lincoln has closed the car’s door and turned on his heels to jog a few yards away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Minute Interlude

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [On the Fence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1651865) by [Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune). 



> This is a companion piece for [On the Fence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1651865). Many thanks to Foxriverinmate for the beta.   
> Initially written in May 2009.

It takes Sucre three seconds to make his move after Lincoln has closed the car’s door and turned on his heels to jog a few yards away. Shuffling to the center of the back seat, he wriggles a shoulder and about half of his upper body into the gap between the front seats and leans in. It has to be a rather uncomfortable position, bent at the waist, butt in the air and balance quite precarious, but it does bring him closer, and Michael can’t help enjoying the contact. Next thing he knows, a hand is cupping his jaw to firmly tilt his head, and a mouth is crashing on his. They’ve done this, and other things, quite a few times but rarely to Sucre’s impulse because Sucre, _madre de Dìos_ , doesn’t do men – usually.

Michael feels his stomach twist because he knows why Sucre took the initiative this time around. There are grumbles about how wrong what they’ve been doing for weeks is, murmurs about Maricruz and Sara, gasps about Lincoln coming back any second and kicking Sucre’s ass if he ever finds out that Sucre has been banging his baby brother – and, for the record, the other way around. The part about Lincoln blowing a gasket makes Michael smile a bit sadly for reasons Fernando couldn’t even begin to fathom.

What there is not, is condolences, questions about how Michael’s feeling or words of comfort, though. This is comfort. This is why Sucre started it.

Well, comfort, and... “I’ve fucking missed this so much, Papi.”

Michael chuckles. “We were doing exactly _this_ a few days ago and it’s not like we haven’t had other things to focus on in the meantime.”

“Whaddaya want, it’s addictive.”

It is. The emotional and physical closeness, the simplicity, the absence of shame, the _light_. Kissing Sara in the infirmary left him riddled with remorse; the not-quite-kisses he stole from Linc years ago were marred with darkness; the women and occasional men he had in his life... never were in his life, just passed by, because he closed himself to them. Sucre may feel guilty for what’s been going on – Michael doesn’t.

He drags Sucre back to him.

The kiss is sloppy because Sucre profusely, nervously licked his lips before starting it, but it remains superficial and gentle – just closed, wet lips pressed against Michael’s dry and slightly chapped ones. It’s Michael who opens up, Michael who darts out his tongue and seeks Sucre’s, Michael who keenly shifts in his seat to get and offer better access. Things heat up then, and they reach a whole new notch when Michael tips his head back. While he lets Sucre lap at his lips and tongue into his mouth, he busies himself with slipping a hand under the t-shirt of the other man. Fingers creep up on skin moist with sweat, smooth and golden; they graze a nipple, pinching and soothing it alternately, before skimming down over strained muscles as far as Michael can reach. It’s answered with a sharp intake of air. Pleased with this reaction, Michael pushes his advantage, whispering right against Sucre’s lips about stroking, sucking, swallowing and, with a wicked smile, bending over the hood. Sucre’s teeth are suddenly digging into his lower lip in retaliation. They worry it viciously and Michael groans his satisfaction – he revels in the rough nipping, in the strangled moan that Sucre spills into his mouth, in the way Sucre surrenders and pleads, “Shit, Michael! Don’t do that! Not now.”

“You started it,” he replies, all taunting smile and teasing fingers.

“And if your brother finds out, I won’t ever have the chance or, you know, the _equipment_ to finish it.”

This brings back untimely desires and memories – but he can’t, shouldn’t and won’t have Lincoln whereas Sucre is here and getting under his skin in this easy, peaceful way that he noticed too late to do anything about. The retort, the constant concern amuses him, too, because Fernando really has no idea... “Don’t worry about Linc,” he says. 

He kisses him again, quick and so dirty that Sucre gasps either in shock or excitation, possibly both, and disentangles the embrace to push him back in his seat.

It took Sucre three seconds to make his move when Lincoln left the car; it takes him less than one to retreat to his seat when Lincoln slides back behind the wheel.

They groped and kissed and teased – Michael dirty-talked to him, Sucre would say – for five minutes.

It takes Michael about an hour to calm down his arousal. An hour and, because he keeps shifting in his seat, Lincoln’s falsely stern, genuinely complicit and slightly sarcastic remark that if he needed some time alone to piss or _whatever_ , he should have taken care of it when they stopped an hour ago.

-End-


End file.
